Blinded
by TuesdayTerrible
Summary: He had miscalculated. Unfortunately for Sherlock Holmes the miscalculation had cost him more than his ego. It had cost him his life.


He had miscalculated.

Unfortunately for Sherlock Holmes the miscalculation had cost him more than his ego. It had cost him his life.

The people he could deduce at a moments glance were gone, replaced with voices and air currents. His world was dark and his mind was revving and tripping over itself, similar to someone hitting the accelerator in a car while the car stayed park.

The door to 221 B Baker street opened and he heard the unmistakeable sound of his brothers umbrella tap once against the floor. [Could be a cane, but John has no need of that...yet]

"What Mycroft?" He said, the words burning their way up his throat. Talking was painful. Being in the dark was painful, no longer was it boring- but suffocating.

"John insisted I stop by." He said. One step. Two. "You needn't close your eyes brother mine. You're blind regardless."

His intake of breath gives his brother more information than he wants him to know.

"Relax dear brother, I have some good news for you."

"The poison that Moriarty through in my face isnt one commonly known in the records, meaning it was uniquely made specifically for." Sherlock made a gesture with his hand at his face. His voice coming off in its completely calm rattle for which he was grateful. He did not feel calm and his left hand was a pretty good indicator as tightly as he had his hand clenched. [Not even subtle any more Sherlock, blind for only 18 hours and you're losing your edge... (shut up, Shut up!)]

"Yes." Mycroft drawled, and he was positive he could hear the smirk on his face. "I thought I could have some of my people take some samples. See if there is anything that can restore your vision."

"Moriarty is to smart for that." Sherlock said. "He failed at his attempt the last time, his little brothers sacrifice all in vein..." He paused for a moment opening his blue eyes to stare vacantly in Mycrofts direction. "Actually, the two of you would make for better arch enemies than the two of us. Brilliant. I've been reduce to a pawn under the assumption you care about me? How...[pathetic] boring." He sighed. "The plan is I will go mad being blind and will undoubtedly kill myself. You...you think I will also?"

It's worded as a question, though Sherlock is quite sure he knows the answer.

"Your eyes were the gateway to your deductions. Yes you smell things, better than ever now. And your ears will adjust, you will deduce air changes and breathing patterns- but you will grow restless. A proverbial itch you can not scratch."

"How long do you give me?"

"32 days."

If nothing else, he'll try for 33

[How are you going to know? It's all darkness now Sherlock (Shut up, just, shut up)]

.

Day 3.

It's John.

A shuffle of feet, a nervous breath.

He's scared of me now. Why?

"I'm not breakable if that's what your worried about." He says his voice as calm as ever. His gaze is fixed out a window he cant see out of. But he knows the layout of his flat intimately, and has not once tripped over anything. Still. Sitting still is much more difficult than it use to be.

John sighs crossing the space into the small room and finding a seat, he tries to determine if it's the left or the right where he takes his seat. His chair or the couch, but he doesn't hear over John talking as he sits.

"Its my fault you know, that poison had been intended for me."

He turned around suddenly and John for half a second forgot that Sherlock couldn't see him as he closed the gap between the two of them...

"He knew I would protect you no matter the cost. That...hasn't changed John."

But it has, John thinks as he watches Sherlock from his chair, as Sherlock stands with his back to him, facing the couch.

Now it is John who must do the protecting.

.

Day 7.

John's missing quite a lot of work. He muses, blue eyes staring emptily up towards the ceiling as he lay on the couch. He listens to the quiet click of the computer and wonders what he is writing. It's either catching up on their last case [Maybe he'll call it Sherlock's demise] or working on some clinical files because his lack of work in the last week.

He hears Mrs Hudson with her tea tray shuffling into the room towards the coffee table. She smells like herbs with just a touch of perfume. Expensive perfume at that. An apology gift perhaps from the Mr. for another one of his mistresses. Foolish Mrs Hudson, to forgive him.

The comments on the tip of his tongue threatening to bubble over, and he can see eyes on him. A strangled sob and a quick scuffle out of here.

"She pities me." Sherlock says voice thick with disgust. "And here I was pitying her."

Johns silence gives answer enough.

"The perfume, she's forgiven him once again."

"Ah." John says, distracted by his paperwork much to his dismay. Shuffling, more clicking. John being able to do things that Sherlock cant. The irritation is infuriating.

"This cant go on you know."

"Hm." John says idly. He's looking at him now giving Sherlock his attention even though he knows he cant see him. It's the sentiment that makes his hands tremble, though clasped, against his chest.

"You have to think about Mary."

"Mary knows I'm here."

"You haven't left here once in five days."

"How do you know that?"

"I can hear." Sherlock huffs before rolling over towards the wall.

"No. I mean, how do you know its been five days?"

"Meals." He says bored. " You and Mrs. Hudson operate like clockwork. [That and you can count every excruciating long second in your mind palace cant you? Nothing to do now but count how long you can bear watching the minute hand pass the hour hand and the hour hand...]

"You're still brilliant." John says, and it makes a small smile ghost over his features despite himself.

"mmm brilliant and nothing to do with it. I suppose there's still a great joy in knowing I could be kidnapped and know exactly where I am as long as they keep me in London."

"And you could do that when you could see!" John exclaims. "I'm sure, give it some time, and you'll be able to wrap that big brain around something."

"Indeed." he says swallowing closing his eyes. But it's always nighttime in his mind palace now.

.

Day 8

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" John says quietly.

He's standing at the opening of the door in a flat that use to be theirs, and for a breif time was theirs again. But Sherlock isn't his only family, nor should he be. He does not resent John, he envies him now more than ever.

"Course." Sherlock says idly, he has the violin in hand, though honestly he's just ready for John to leave.

He needs to get out without a babysitter. It doesn't matter if he cant see. Maybe getting out of Baker Street will provide the distraction he needs so he can temporary get out of the dark.

"I'll be back Monday evening so."

He doesn't bother to listen to John prattle on merely gliding his bow against the violin as he listens for the door to shut indicating Johns departure. He plays for what feels like a minute, but could very well be a few hours, and while time never seemed to matter before when he was able to move around as he will. He's a bit perturbed by the fact he has no way to tell how much time he has lost.

His first instinct is to scream Mrs Hudson. But he bites his tongue and fumbles with his shoes instead. Why should it matter if its 2pm or 2am? Its dark forever.

He makes it down fifteen steps, and down the last five before he bumps into someone. Something wet and hot [coffee, three sugars] sloshes on to his jacket and he hisses at the contact and steps back involuntarily.

"Oh, Sherlock, I-I'm so sorry."

He'd know that voice anywhere and his eyes snap down to see a kneeling Molly Hooper scooping up the split cup of coffee. She looks up at him offering a smile, "Of course it would be my cup." She says a chuckle in your voice. "I still have yours here." She says pausing waving another blurry container. "Sherlock? Are you alright? You're as white as a sheet."

He slowly sinks to his knees in front of her, his knee absorbing the coffee as he kneels in front of her speechless. [Why, why can you see her?]

She's calling his name again, but all he can see are her perfect eyes, and beige coat and navy blue scarf.

"Sherlock..." She touches his cheek gently, a thumb brushing over his eyes. "You're crying." her voice is nothing but a hushed whisper.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

And a gloved hand touches the side of her face before he pushes his lips desperately against hers.

.

Day 11

"You say he can see?" Mycroft says, not trying to conceal his surprise.

"Well...not exactly." Johns says through his phone. "He can, only see Molly."

"Miss Hooper?"

"You've met? Of course you've met never mind." John says coughing into his hand, before clearing his throat "ahem, well yes, anyway, I didnt believe it myself at first but he can correctly tell me everything she's wearing."

"That's hardly a feat John. The woman's attire is small as is." Mycroft says. "Deductions from what time it is. How she smells. Memory."

"Yes, but he says." John sighs. "You don't think he's...making it up? Why would he?"

"Why indeed."

.

Day 13.

She doesn't mention the kiss as she leans before him. She chalks it up to Moriarty and the blindness and the fact that for whatever reason he can see her. Or believes he can see her as Mycroft is so inclined to believe. She tries to dismiss it instead of treasure it. But she knows it'll be something she takes to the grave.

"Look up." She says quietly as Sherlock lifts his head to the ceiling with a bit of a huff.

"You don't want to look up." She says as she lightly scrapes the area of his eye with a cue tip. "Why?"

"Your deduction skills are improving."

"No." She says quietly. "It's just you."

He hears her unzip a bag, and pull out another utensil, and another and set them on the end table beside him. He cant tell by the sound what it was and while he wants to look down if he ever wants to see again, he trusts no one more than Molly Hooper to figure out a way to make that happen.

"So why don't you?" She asks, followed a by. "This might sting a little."

And it does more than sting a little but he stays anchored to the question, despite his initial attempt at avoiding it.

"You are." He grits out between his teeth. "the only thing that keeps the darkness at bay."

She pauses as she does some more clinking, he turns his head towards her in a means to look but everything but her is blurry. The objects in her hands may as well be censored and it infuriates him.

"Do you believe I can see you." He says finally.

She sets the objects down on the end table, and holds up both her hands.

"Can you see my hands?" she says almost uninterested.

"Yes."

"Tell me about them."

"You're behind on your paperwork, you have two...three paper cuts on your index finger, you're left handed, obviously. You use lotion every night before bed, your hands are smooth as silk and smell quite good considering you spend most of your days elbow deep in bodies, and you did your nails blue...yesterday, because you think blue is my favorite color."

He pauses a minute relishing in the color her cheeks have turned. "You're right by the way."

Molly lets out a shaky breath before going on. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

He raises an eyebrow up at her before responding simply.

"2"

"And now?"

"7."

"Exactly."

He stares at her blankly waiting for her to continue.

"Your deductions about me could mostly be from memory. You already knew I was left handed. You could have touched my hand at any time and have felt the paper cuts and the gloss on my nails. You could have known I thought your favorite color was blue because of the way I looked at you or how I tilted my head once. Or because Ive always. Well, you know. But I just witnessed you tell me without any hesitation what number I held up both times without so much as touching me. Yes, you're a brilliant, brilliant man. But you are still...just a man."

He stares at her for a minute, and while he can see her. He feels if he's seeing Molly Hooper for the very first time.

"Don't look at me like that." She says self consciously. "There's still samples I need to get before I can go back to the lab."

.

Day 19.

"It's been to long since he's seen Molly." John says worriedly as he takes harbor in his old bedroom. A particular loud crash echos behind him and Mycroft frowns deeply. "He called me accidentally in hopes of purchasing drugs. He's in terrible shape. Cant she just- take a break? He needs it." Another shatter. "-dammit Sherlock would you just-"

Mycroft sighs.

"If he has any hopes of being able to see anything else he needs to let her work John."

"If you have any hopes of keeping him sane you need to let him see her. Or Ill go down there and pull her out myself."

"And if you do, my men will kill you on site." Mycroft says coolly.

He can hear John fuming in frustration. "Look. You bloody bastard..."

"Why do you think he needs to see Molly John?"

"He needs to see something."

"Exactly. Now. Why?"

"I dont know."

"What does he see when he looks at someone?"

"Everything."

"Exactly. And how do you think that's going to work out for poor Miss Hooper?"

.

Day 22.

[Your mind palace is dark Sherlock. Did you forget to pay the electric bill? (Quiet) ]

Sherlocks eyes stare off at the ceiling. He cant recall how much sleep he's actually gotten, or meals he's eaten. Apparently not enough considering John had to bring Mycroft over- who promptly threatened to shove a tube down his throat if he did not comply.

(It was a powder..how did it smell? Think. It's in here. I know it is.)

[You know where John keeps his gun dont you?]

(In the desk drawer, obviously.)

[Good. You're going to need it.]

Day 27.

He looks awful Molly muses. His curls are slick with sweat, and his eyes carry the darkest circles she's ever seen. "Have you slept at all?" She whispers quietly, fingers intertwining with his. His hands shake when the collide with hers.

"I don't know." he answers, and she can tell it takes so much to pull those words up his vocal chords. John says he hasn't spoken to him in days, apparently the concern was great enough for Mycroft to send her directly here.

"I think it may be a concentration of Hemlock...and something else. It's like he plucked it all out of his personal garden or something." Molly mutters.

"It doesn't matter how Molly. What are you going to be able to do about it?"

"If I know what Sherlock-"

"You'll determine what I determined a few days ago. Its not curable. Everything you've suggested either causes temporary blindness or death." He pauses and she wonders if he's done talking the silence drags out much longer than comfortable before he says "And since I can still not see anything but you, and I am not dead. The answer is obvious."

"Sherlock." she says softly using her free hand (the one not still intertwined with his, because he is not letting her go, even for a moment) and running it through his messy curls. "Perhaps you just need a bath. Some rest and that big ole brain of yours can hear about my results. We can run some more tests the two of us can figure this out. Let me be your eyes Sherlock."

He stares at her for a minute before he rises from his chair pulling Molly with him. She guides him unconsciously as he begins to pull her to the bathroom. She starts the water for him, and is surprised that he lets her, by the time she turns around she hears him behind her, his clothes already discarded to the floor in a slump.

He gets into the tub, a bit awkwardly but successfully all the same, and Molly, fifty shades of red sits on the loo and directs her gaze to the door.

"Get in." he says when she moves to turn the water off.

"Wha-?" She stutters her eyes running over his abdominals before she catches him catching her looking. Her face turning somehow, even redder. I look like a cherry, she muses before turning her attention back to the door. She clearly heard him incorrectly.

"I'm not okay." he says quietly.

She responds without even thinking, her skin prickling at the familiarity of everything.

"What do you need?"

"You."

And so he has her.

Skin to skin. Lips to lips. Heart to heart.

.

Day 32.

His hand reaches for the gun in Johns drawer. It had been a bit of feat to find the key blind but not an impossible one. But even blind Johns habits did not change, nor did his passwords on the computer. Predictable. Boring even.

He would miss him.

The gun is thick in his hands. He wonders what time it is, as he sits down in his chair. He runs his fingers over the trigger, palming the weight, the familiarity of it overwhelming. It used to be that he was pointing it at the wall, not in his mouth.

It tastes like copper.

He closes his eyes though it does not matter. Its dark everywhere, except Molly.

{She wont forgive you if you end up in her morgue Sherlock}

He blinks at the sound of his best mates voice, its been a while that someone besides Moriarty's voice was in his head.

It's the only thought he needs as he stares up at the ceiling, a small smile appearing over his lips.

"John Watson, you keep me right."

It's then that door flings open and Molly comes running in with a beaker and a syringe, hair wild and eyes sunken in from lack of sleep. Her lab coat trails behind her with the amount of force she cant running through the door, her cherry blouse is stained and crinkled from sleeping in and her socks do not match.

She is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Sherlock, I did it I...wh-what are you doing with that gun?"

He throws it to the side and crosses the room in two full strides capturing his face in his hands.

"It doesn't matter. If you're the only thing I see for the rest of my life. It's fine." He clears his throat touching his forehead to hers. "It's fine. I love you Molly Hooper."

There's a lengthy pause as she stares at him, unshed tears burning in her eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry it took so long to catch up."

Day 33.

"She actually did it Mary. She's a genius!"

"It sounds like you have a crush Mr. Watson." Mary said playfully leaning back in her chair, her phone pressed securely between her face and shoulder blade.

"Never." John said joyfully. "She just, she really pulled through for him."

"It wasn't just her." Sherlock's baritone echoed behind him, causing John instinctively to lower the phone.

"I couldn't have done it without you." Sherlock said closing the space between them, Molly hovering in the doorway behind the two, a small sheepish smile on her face. "Without you, I wouldn't have had the nerve to realize that the only thing worth seeing was in front of me this whole time."

"What?" John said looking around Sherlock to Molly once again.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"You're not..."

"John, I can see quite clearly how to make you shut up."

The laughter between the two of them erupted with that comment, as John wrapped his arms around his best friend.

"I'm happy for you."

"SO AM I!" came a distance voice from Johns wife, temporarily discarded to the floor, and as John bent to retrieve his phone from the floor. Sherlock turned to breech the distance from him to Molly- determined to never put it there again.

"Thank you Molly Hooper." He whispered taking her hand in his and placing it to his lips.

"It's my pleasure." She whispers back as all the lights in his mind palace, finally, brightly, entirely, turn on.

.End.


End file.
